“That is generous.”
Inside the theater, our seats were near the aisle.
Ellie examined the cards placed on them.
Mine readSAVANNAH BROOKS.
Hers readELLIE PARKER.
She ran one finger over the printed letters.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The answer came slowly enough that I trusted it.
“It’s strange.”
“Bad strange?”
“No. More like seeing your name on a classroom door when you didn’t realize you had enrolled.”
“You can leave after my category.”
“I’m staying.”
“You dislike award shows.”
“I dislike carpets. Award shows have chairs.”
The ceremony began.
For the first hour, we watched performances, applauded people we knew, and listened to presenters deliver jokes that had clearly survived several committee meetings.
Ellie whispered commentary into my ear.
“That man thanked his dog before his wife.”
“The dog may have contributed more.”
“That dress has no visible means of attachment.”
“Fashion relies on faith.”
“Your publicist can hear us.”
Sophie sat three seats away and kept her eyes on the stage.
“She has developed selective hearing.”
WhenTour of the Yearappeared on the screen, my stomach tightened.
I had been nominated before.
I had lost before.
I had won before.
